


Luminance

by soup



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art School, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22184359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soup/pseuds/soup
Summary: Eames traded the inflexible structures of science for the fertile soil of the arts as soon as the opportunity presented itself to him in sixth form. It’s been an age since he last considered Newtonian physics what with the only classics he deals with these days comprising  doric, ionic and corinthian, but he remembers enough to accept his body’s aversion to movement as part of some greater cosmic plan... orsomething. He’s incredibly drunk and a league past eloquent, but manages to telegraph the sentiment with a grunt and halfhearted hand flap.Prompt —an artschool, a starry night, empty beer bottles
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Luminance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt [Q](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queuebird) sent in [ _an artschool, a starry night, empty beer bottles FOR INCEPTION, ANY SHIP (OR LACK THEREOF)_ ] — and is 100% self-indulgent and unbetaed. I might have cheated a little with Van Gogh but not really... Shameless _and they were roommates_ backstory, and the whole jumper conversation on the Discord has clearly left its mark...  
  
Reposted from the originally titled _Inertia_, because (1) titles are hard and hindsight is 20-20, and (2) tags didn't stick the first time around, so...

Eames traded the inflexible structures of science for the fertile soil of the arts as soon as the opportunity presented itself to him in sixth form. It’s been an age since he last considered Newtonian physics what with the only classics he deals with these days comprising doric, ionic and corinthian, but he remembers enough to accept his body’s aversion to movement as part of some greater cosmic plan... or _something._ He’s incredibly drunk and a league past eloquent, but manages to telegraph the sentiment with a grunt and halfhearted hand flap. The others acquiesce by stumbling out of sight without further comment and Eames makes no effort to crane his neck and witness their departure; their trajectory’s easy to track from the scuff of worn rubber soles and shrill roll of empty beer bottles across concrete. 

He’ll follow suit, eventually. A body at rest will remain at rest until a force acts upon it, and there is nothing pressing but the unyielding gravel at his back, the discomfort of which is muted by the alcohol drifting through his bloodstream. Much like Aunt Marjorie’s plump tabby that spends its days settling into sun warmed spots across the Vallauris flat, Eames unfurls one vertebrae at a time until the cacophonous crackle of joints leaves him feeling boneless and sagging into a contented heap. Unlike Aunt Marjorie’s sunlight-soaked flat however, the rooftop of Higgins Hall offers little to no comfort and, lest slumber leave him to the whims of security guards, he places his bets on the chill being the force (or _whatever_) that acts upon him sooner than later.

* * *

Eames jolts at the sound of breaking glass and muttered cursing.

Shortly after, a disembodied voice disrupts the silence. “Eames?”

A private smile is his only reaction, fingers interlocked beneath his head as he listens for the quiet steps. His resolve to remain silent and still wavers when he hears Arthur tripping over discarded bottles, but soon enough he catches movement in his peripheral vision and, reassured that his beloved isn’t bleeding face-first on the ground somewhere, closes his eyes.

“Hey... are you really asleep?”

Eames suppresses all reactions to the probing pressure along his right side and resists the bastard temptation of snatching the offending foot. He remains still for as long as he can, but Arthur’s petulance is a source of unmitigated glee that’s hard to contain. His indulgent smile must be answer enough, and the huff it elicits from above only causes it to widen. He responds to the feeble kick at his ribs by unlocking his fingers and dislodging one of the hands cradling his own head away from the ground, and extends his right arm sideways as an olive branch.

“_Eames._”

Three years ago that tone could only elicit a fight response— 

* * *

_(Shortly after they’d been first introduced as roommates, Eames had sought to catalogue Arthur’s myriad inflections in an attempt to fathom the threat he posed and become better prepared for retaliation. They didn’t like one another, back then._

_Five months into their strained acquaintance Eames invoked Machiavelli, Sun Tzu and Mao Zedong, sinking to the cruelest depths of irreverence to strike the jugular and win once and for all the fight he’d been spoiling for from the moment they’d first met. Arthur’s retaliation was so thorough a verbal lashing that it striped Eames of every advantage he’d coveted. _

_But it was the two-month-long silent treatment that would teach him what disadvantage truly felt like. Eames’ anger turned stale in due time, giving way to the unfamiliar and acidic tang of shame: a bitter film coating his mouth that thickened with every dismissed peace offering—apology, pleasantry, kindness. In the months that followed Eames found himself chained to a doghouse he’d cornered himself into; while Arthur continued to keep him at a safe distance, Eames came to realise just how much freedom he’d once had and how grievously he’d misjudged the distance between them._

_It was only once he was cast as an outsider to Arthur’s life and denied all subjective participation, that Eames noticed the factual truth that had been staring right at him all along: that despite his tongue’s sharpened edges Arthur seldom wielded it with injurious intent. To turn himself into an enemy of someone who had never perceived him as one until that very moment was the misstep necessary to set Eames on a course to learn a much-needed lesson in humility.)_

* * *

—but these days it is a reminder of how far they’ve come, and his indulgent smile turns impish as he pats the ground.

“_Arthur_.” He mirrors.

3…

2…

1…

“_God_, you’re such an asshole. We’ve got a _perfectly_ good bed back _home_ and you—” Arthur starts, without stopping despite the many pauses for breath, and so his staggered descent into Eames’ arms is accompanied by the most egregious and disparaging comments on Eames’ character. On any other occasion Eames would allow Arthur to wear himself out, but a familiar article of clothing catches his attention and he interrupts.

“Is that my _Van_ _Gogh_ you’re wearing, darling?”

Arthur elbows him none too gently under the guise of getting comfortable and says nothing. While there’s a lot of overlap between the School of Art and the School of Architecture, there are irremediable differences amongst the students who attend them, particularly as to what qualifies as fashion; and Eames remembers being warned that _should _he_ ever wear that outrageous woollen monstrosity with its shitty abstract rendition of Starry Night in_ Arthur’s _company_ then he could _count on being single in the foreseeable future._

Eames wraps his elbow over Arthur’s shoulder and splays his hand across the jumper’s uneven surface. _His_ jumper, mind. Dry fingernails catch on the many peaks of yellow wool weaved in to represent the stars, a pitiful attempt to recreate the feeling of dried oil paint on the original canvas. Eames hums as he blindly traces from memory the stars’ curving tails across Arthur’s chest.

“I can hear you being smug. Shut _up._”

“Well, could always shut me up yourself.”

“If you let me take you home, I will.”

They lapse into silence until Arthur rolls onto his side to burrow into Eames’ chest, seeking warmth and securing leverage. In the end, it won’t be the cold that forces Eames to move, but rather the heat—heat stoked under his skin by the promise of peeling Arthur out of an unfashionable jumper and pressing him into bed. _Their_ bed. 

“Take me home then, dear Arthur.”


End file.
